


Can't Keep From Hurting You

by Starlingsings



Category: Lennon/McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingsings/pseuds/Starlingsings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are recording... and fighting.  Paul gets drunk, John takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How did we get here?

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with the wonderful Rhoste.

John shakes his head and puts down his guitar. "You don't like the way I play, Paul, you can bloody well do it yourself. I'm done." With that he gets up and walks out of the studio. It's been one of those days, one of the ones where he and Paul can't see eye to eye about anything. He heads up to the roof, looking to get some air, lighting a cigarette as he goes. It's starting to be like this all the time, now, he and Paul butting heads, and he doesn't know what to do.

The very first impulse Paul has is to follow John. He's not sure whether he wants to have this out or apologise - maybe both. What he does, though, is grab a guitar with a muttered 'fine!' There's no meeting George's eyes as he quickly re-tunes. The tuning's not really necessary, more something to do while he tries to control his face, the way he knows his eyes tighten and his mouth pinches in at the corners.

_How did we get here?_ Paul wonders for the millionth time that day. They've always squabbled and taken the piss, but lately... Shaking his head, Paul clears his mind. "All right," he says, looking through the glass at the sound engineer, "Playback."

Three cigarettes later and John's sure no-one will be following him to the roof. He's not sure if he should be annoyed, or, oddly, proud of Paul for standing his ground and not chasing him down to apologise. Which he acknowledges is a ridiculous thought, given how fucking pissed he is, but there it is. Now he has a decision to make: go back down to the studio or fuck off home. Since home is Cynthia and the boy and the studio is Paul, the decision isn't really all that hard, and back downstairs he goes.

He stops in the sound booth when he sees the record light on, listening to Paul play his guitar - and better than he can. Talented fucker. Maybe Paul would be better off without him, maybe the Beatles don't really need him? Maybe he should just fuck off out of all their lives? There's a long moment when that seems like the best choice, but then Paul's finished playing and the recording light goes dark and he looks fucking _satisfied_ with what he's done and John's temper rises and he storms back into the studio. "You think you can do this without me, Paul?" he shouts. "You think you're _anything_ without me? Without me you'd be singing Bing Crosby at weddings and don't you ever fucking forget it."

Paul looks up when he hears the door opening and when he sees that it's John coming back in, he feels a shaft of intense relief spearing through him. While he might have the _ability_ to take care of his music himself, it's just not the same...not without John and that spark they have together, fighting or no. Of course, the relief only lasts half a second - as long as it takes for John's words to penetrate. Then Paul's mouth goes all tight again and he tilts his head round a little, in Ringo's general direction, though his narrowed, glittering eyes never leave John's. "What do you think, mate?" he asks, voice distinctly and deliberately nonchalant, almost bored-sounding, "He spend enough time up there to find his hands again?" 

It's cold and it's calculated to cut deep and as soon as Paul's said it, he wants to take the words back. He doesn't, though. That last comment had hurt and he wants to hurt John back.

John clenches his hands, resisting the urge to punch that pinched look. For someone with such a glorious mouth, Paul is very capable of looking like he just licked something horrid. And John's pretty sure that something horrid is him. He shakes his head, wondering just why the fuck he continues to put himself through this. There have to be easier ways to make music. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Ritchie, George, bugger off for a bit, will you?" he asks, keeping his eyes on Paul. After they've filed out, looking more relieved than anything else, he sits down and picks up his guitar.

"You've never had a problem with my hands before," he remarks, eyes now firmly on the guitar.

Some of that tension moves back up to Paul's eyes, pulling them tight at the corners as he continues to meet John's eyes while the others leave. It's like there's something in him when it comes to John and they're in a mood like this, he won't - _can't_ \- be the first to drop that gaze. As is becoming more and more common these days, Paul feels torn between wanting to lash out at John and pull him close and kiss him until they can't either one breathe or even _think_ anymore.

Of course, with the topic of their conversation being John's hands - and the bugger just _has_ to go and put them on display, doesn't he!? - Paul feels his eyes drawn to them, like filings to a magnet. _Fucking love your hands, Johnny_ , it's there to read on his face, clear as day, if John cared to look up and see it. What Paul manages to say, however, is a somewhat more neutral, "Don't have a problem with them now."

"No?" John shrugs and nods. "Seems as though you do. Seems like you think they can't play your music properly." And that hurts, it hurts a lot. Paul's music has always been so good, and John knows that he's not the best musician around. But Paul always says he needs John to play his music. At least, he used to at any rate. He risks a glance up, smirking when he sees Paul's eyes fixed firmly on his hands. _Yes, you bastard. Like them well enough for_ **that** _now, don't you?_

He knows John's trying to hide it, but Paul can hear the hurt under his voice and it just guts him (never mind that it's what he'd been aiming for). Mouth already opening to say something to reassure him, make some apology, Paul glances up and sees that smirk on John's face and his gut clenches all over again. _Never going to be anything but the half-annoying kid following him around like a love-sick pup._ "It's not your hands I have a problem with, John," he finally repeats, the words gritted out from between clenched jaws, "It's that damned head of yours getting in the way."

"My head? _My_ head? That's a laugh that is, Paul. I'm not the one who has to control everything, make everything so perfect it's got no bloody soul. I'm not the one who makes it clear he can only be happy if everyone does exactly what he says," John fires back, regretting the words as soon as they cross his lips. They're not going to get him anywhere anyway, and all they'll do is drive Paul further away from him. There's a part of him that wants very much to just go and lay his head in Paul's lap and ask for forgiveness. But he's right here, he's sure he is, and besides, opening himself up to Paul pushing him away? No, that's not going to happen. Not now.

Shoving the guitar he'd still been holding aside, Paul stands, eyes dark with hurt, unable to hide how deep that barb had struck. "No soul?" he doesn't dare more than a whisper, afraid John'll be able to hear the waver in his voice, "Guess it's a wonder you'll deign to play it at all, then."

John knows he's crossed the line, gone too far. But he won't _can't_ back down. He shrugs, eyes on his guitar. "Guess it is," he drawls.

All the answer Paul can make is a jerky nod. _Right then._ Then he's brushing hard against John as he moves past him to leave the studio, flee, ‘getting out’ all he can think about.

"Fuck," John mutters under his breath. He can't look up, even though the possibility crosses his mind that this might be the last look at Paul he ever gets. With that thought he squeezes his eyes closed, willing away the tears. His fingers move over the guitar strings, just random plucking, the rest of his body held still for fear that he'll race after Paul and pull him back, to the studio, to the music, to him.

It doesn't even cross his mind to grab his coat on the way out and by the time Paul gets back to his flat, he's as numb on the outside as he is on the inside. He grabs the half-full bottle of cheap whiskey from the cabinet, not bothering with a glass as he tips it up, dropping, damp and shivering, onto his sofa.

John waits for Paul to come back, and it’s only after twenty minutes have gone by that he realises it's not going to happen. He puts down his guitar and takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. All his movements are heavy, weighted down by the knowledge of what he's done. Eventually he sighs and gets to his feet, heading for the sound booth. There's nobody left, nothing there except Paul's jacket. John picks it up and presses it to his nose, inhaling the scent of Paul, wrapping it around himself as he slumps down into a chair, trying to figure out what to do next.

For a long time, Paul just sits there, tipping the bottle up as he takes pull after long pull, letting the whiskey burn its way down his throat to his gut as the words run round and round in his head, over and over. "No soul," he mutters into the empty room, though there's no heat behind it, just a fatalistic resignation, "Fuck you, Johnny."

John has no idea how much time has passed when he finally heaves himself up out of the chair and heads out into the night, Paul's coat clutched in one hand. Outside the studio door there's the usual group of girls waiting, but he's in no mood to flirt and he just brushes past them, heading off down the street. His car is right there but he needs to move his body, needs to walk, breathe in the London air. He passes pub after pub, shrugging off the warm comfort they offer. Eventually he finds himself on Paul's road, in front of the building where he keeps a flat. He doesn't know what to do, now, though. Go up and knock and hand Paul his jacket. Okay, yeah. And then say what? He sits on the stoop, pulls out a ciggie and lights it, trying to think this through.

At some point, Paul's had enough liquor that getting out and going over to John's to show him just how much soul he, Paul, has seems like a good idea. He spends several minutes looking around for his coat before he remembers he'd left it at the studio. "Bugger!" he mutters; he'll just have to go out without it, then. One more slug of whiskey and then he's out the door, only bouncing off the walls once or twice on his way down.

John's still sitting on the stoop when the door opens behind him. He looks up and sees Paul, drunk as a lord, standing unsteadily over him, the smell of cheap booze coming off him in waves. He holds up the coat. "Here, mate. You'll catch your death." Okay, so it's not the best opening line in the world but it's friendlier than anything else he's said to Paul today, and he's hopeful that the amount of whiskey Paul's had will make him see John in a kindly light. Or at least keep him from killing John outright.

Paul takes a step forward, automatically reaching for the coat John's holding out. A mild stumble has him leaning hard against the other man, though. "H'lo, Johnny," he murmurs, face mere inches from John's, "Was coming to see you."

John instinctively wraps an arm around Paul's waist, keeping him upright. The blast of whiskey breath is powerful, but he's smelled far worse things on Paul's breath over the years. "Saved you the trip, then," he says, manouevering Paul around and back facing the front door. "Come on, then, Paul, let's get you back upstairs."

"Gonna show you 've got soul," Paul blathers on, letting John lead him back inside. It's like the liquor's loosened his tongue and now there's no stopping or editing the words that spill out. "Show you 'm more'n just a pretty face. Not just tha' pitiful kid follow'n you 'round 'nymore."

"You were never pitiful, Paul. Never." John knows he needs to apologise, needs to make this right somehow, but right now Paul's in no state to listen to him, so he might as well just let him blather on. He guides Paul back up the stairs, arm still firmly around him, juggling out his key chain one-handed to use his key to open Paul's door.

"Was," Paul insists, leaning more heavily against John as he gets the door open, "Know you thought it..." Suddenly, Paul trails off, like he only now realizes what it is he's saying. Then they're moving inside and he's headed straight for the bottle, not nearly drunk enough for the confession he's just made.

"I never thought you were pitiful, Paul," John repeats, taking the bottle away from Paul, taking a swig himself before he puts the top back on and sets it aside. "C'mon, love, let me make you a cup of tea." He turns and heads into the kitchen without waiting for Paul to respond.

For a long moment, Paul watches John's back as he putters around the tiny kitchen. "Yeah," he finally sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face, "Tea. A'right, love." Then, still watching John, Paul moves to lean against the cabinet next to (but not too near) him. "Love," he repeats, softer, mouth going off on another tangent, "Love you, Johnny. Christ, 'times I wish I didn't love you like I do, 'cause you couldn't gut me like this 'f I didn't..."

John puts his hands on the counter and leans on it, eyes closed as that last bit sinks in. "I didn't mean..." but he trails off. He did mean to hurt Paul, meant to flay the skin off him with his remarks. He opens his eyes and turns to look at Paul. "I can be a fucking prick sometimes." It's not an apology, not really, but it's as close as he's likely to get.

"Wanted to hurt you," Paul admits quietly, regret clear in his eyes, his voice, "God, Johnny!" And he's reaching for John, needing just to touch him again.

John moves to meet him, arms around Paul, holding him. "Nobody does that better to us than us, Paulie," he says, relief flooding his system that he hasn't lost Paul completely.

Pressing his forehead against John's, eyes closed, Paul tells him, "Nobody loves you like I do, either." His arms move around John's waist, pulling him closer, craving the reassurance of that contact.

"I know, love," John reassures him. "You and me, we're something, aren't we?" He's quiet, letting the feel of Paul in his arms sink in. "I love you, too, you know."


	2. As Long As We Have This...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are recording... and fighting. Paul gets drunk. John takes care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with the amazing Rhoste.

When Paul wakes up, the soft, grey light coming through the window tells him it's just barely gone on dawn. Even that pale light is enough to double the beat of the throbbing in his head, though. With a soft groan, he tries to roll to his back but can't; there's someone curled up tight against him.

Images of the previous day start kaleidoscoping through his mind then - the studio, fighting with John, all the brutally cutting things they'd said to one another, walking out, the whiskey. Paul groans again and reaches a hand up to rub over his face remembering the whiskey. The flood of memories keep coming, though - wanting to see John, nearly tripping over him down on the stoop, whispered apologies as they stood there in his kitchen in each other's arms. And then John had put him to bed, climbing in behind him to hold him and whisper soft reassurances and love-words into the back of his hair until he'd fallen asleep.

"John?" he whispers, wincing a little at how loud his voice sounds to his hangover. Paul's hand reaches down to brush over the thigh flung across his own legs, utterly taken with the feel of wiry hair against his palm. "Johnny?"

John had stayed awake for hours, first watching over Paul and then going over the day's events, berating himself for his behaviour. Eventually, though, he had fallen asleep, Paul safe in his arms. Now the sound of Paul's voice tickles at his subconscious until it finally pulls him into something resembling wakefulness. He tightens his arms around Paul and mutters, "Shhhh, Paulie, 've got you. S'all right. 'M here."

"You're here," Paul repeats back to John, a thread of relief running through his voice. For long minutes, Paul just lays there in silence, his hand petting over John's skin, letting the solid warmth of him sink in. Finally, the regret audible, he murmurs, "I'm sorry, Johnny. I hate myself when I'm hurting you."

John nuzzles into the back of Paul's neck. "You weren't the only one doing the hurting, love." He reaches down and takes the hand that's on his thigh, entwining his fingers with Paul's. "It was a bloody bad show all around. But it's over now. No need to worry any more."

Bringing their twined hands up, Paul rubs their knuckles across his mouth. "Won't be the last, John, you know that as well as I do," he makes the words as gentle as possible, kissing their fingers again before going on, "But I love you. Whatever I might say, Johnny, I always love you."

"I know, Paul," John answers, kissing the back of Paul's neck. "I love you, too." He sighs. "I don't know what happens when we get like this. What it is that makes us so hateful to each other. But I do love you, Paul. Even when you irritate the living fuck out of me, I still love you."

There's no help for it. When John kisses the back of his neck like that, Paul just can't control his body's involuntary shiver. Of course, John's words register a split second later. " _I_ irritate _you_!?" he squawks and then groans, clutching at his head with a much softer, muttered, "Ah, fuck!"

John chuckles, breath stirring the hairs on the back of Paul's neck. "Well, yes, and I irritate you too. Don't get too riled up, Paul. You don't have the head for it today." He moves his head slightly and nuzzles Paul's shoulder. "Speaking of head..."

"You've got an aspirin sitting there just waiting for me?" Paul asks hopefully, shivering all over again to feel John's mouth on him.

John snorts a laugh. "That wasn't quite what I meant, but, yeah, hang on." He slides out of the bed, padding naked to the loo to forage in the medicine cabinet. Of course, he's forgotten his bloody specs by the bed, but the bottle the pills are in is pretty distinctive, even as a blur. At least, he hopes he's got the right one. He fills the glass by the sink with water and takes bottle and glass back to Paul in the bed. "Here, Paulie. Make sure this is right, will you? Don't want to be accused of trying to poison you on top of everything else."

Paul's half sitting up against the pillows when John comes back in. Reaching for the bottle and the glass, he snuffles a muted chuckle, "I'd never think you'd try to poison me, love...throttle, maybe..."

Three little white pills swallowed down and he's handing the bottle and empty glass back to John to put down on the nightstand. Now he reaches for the man himself, "Thanks, you're a love."

"Can't say I've never thought of my hands around your neck," John chuckles, climbing back into the bed and gathering Paul into his arms again. "Rather have them on your ass, though."

"Mmmmm," the happy hum comes, unbidden, to the back of Paul's throat when he's got John's body against his once more, their legs tangling. "Such a sweet talker you are," he teases gently, the warmth in his voice unmistakable, "Keep going, then." And, despite the state of his head, the nearness of John has Paul's body stirring with the beginnings of interest.

John leans in and kisses Paul, soft and sweet with just a little edge of need. "With the talk or the hands?" he asks, one hand sliding down Paul's body and cupping the aforementioned ass.

Biting John's lip gently, only really hard enough to tease, Paul murmurs a hopeful, "Both?"

John adjusts his position just a little, knee sliding in between Paul's thighs. "You've got a great ass, Paul. You know that, right? Or, you should, given the way I can't keep my hands off it." He kisses Paul again. "Such a sexy bastard."

"Mmm," there's more than just a hint of huskiness in Paul's voice now when he answers, "Love your hands, Johnny...especially on me." As he speaks, Paul rubs up against John's thigh, his prick now most definitely interested. His own hands run restlessly over John's shoulders and upper arms, wanting to pull him closer, but, even more, wanting to let his lover take the lead, drive the pace.

"Mmhmmm."John hums approval, taking Paul's mouth in a more definite kiss now, rolling them over so Paul's underneath him, hand sliding along Paul's thigh and pulling it so it bends up beside him. His other hand lodges in Paul's hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck. His mouth slides down, tongue slicking over the column of Paul's throat. "Want you, Paul. Always have."

Groaning softly to feel John's mouth at his throat, Paul swallows hard, body arching up against John's. "I'm yours, love," he rasps, "You can have me." There's something in his voice, though, staking his claim on John even as he's giving himself; an unspoken _'I'm yours, but you are every bit as much mine'_.

John sucks gently at a spot where Paul's neck meets his torso, then worries at it with his teeth, stopping only when he's sure Paul will be wearing his mark for at least a couple of days. "Mine," he affirms, pulling back to look Paul in the eyes. He hadn't missed the tone in Paul's voice, and he adds, "Just like I'm yours."

_Bloody **hell**!!_ John's teeth on him have Paul writhing up against him. It's like John's words still him again, though. "Don't forget it," he demands softly, eyes never leaving John's.

"Couldn't." John shakes his head. "Nobody does me like you do, Paulie."

"Nobody," Paul agrees, reaching up to cup the side of John's face in his hand. Then, as if to seal the words, he lifts up and presses their mouths together, a soft, gentle, almost chaste kiss.

John takes a moment to enjoy the kiss, then deepens it, pressing hard against Paul's mouth. One hand fumbles across to the night table, reaching for the tube he knows is there. Mouth opening, he pushes his tongue into Paul's, while he fumbles open the tube and slicks his fingers. "Spread 'em for me. Paulie," he murmurs against Paul's mouth. "Wanna fuck you."

Already opening up for him, Paul licks across John's mouth. "Yeah, love," he whispers, reaching down to wrap a hand around John's prick, "Want this... Want _you_." The heat's already building, Paul's burning need for John never far from the surface.

Reaching down, John's fingers circle Paul's hole, pressing against the tight muscle until it gives enough for him to slip a finger inside. His hips roll gently, pushing his hard prick into Paul's hand. "Feels good, love."

Paul's answering hum is soft and almost musical. He doesn't pay much attention, though, being entirely focused on John's hand and the way it's opening him up, making him feel. "Most gorgeous fucking hands, Johnny," he breathes, not caring that he's hardly making sense.

"Hush, Paulie," John murmurs, covering Paul's mouth with his. He's fucking Paul with his fingers now, opening him up wide, while his tongue pushes into Paul's mouth, tangling with Paul's.

Need riding him now, Paul sucks on John's tongue, his hand speeding up. His hangover is utterly forgotten at this point; all that's on Paul's mind is getting John inside him as quickly as possible.

"Now, Paulie," John whispers urgently. "Need to take you now." He shifts his hips, pulling away from Paul's hand, adjusting himself so the head of his prick is pushing against Paul's hole. "Ready, love?" he asks, and at the nod starts to push into the warmth of Paul's body.

Paul's head strains back as John breaches him. "Ah, love!" he gasps, hands grasping at John's hips, "Oh, yes-- _please_ , Johnny!" He's not normally the type to beg but something about having John inside him like this just demolishes his pride and he can't really find it in himself in the moment to care.

"Yes, love, yes," John soothes, nuzzling at Paul's throat, pulling his hips back and then pressing forward again slowly, savouring the feel of Paul surrounding him.

Electricity zings through Paul and he lifts up into John, urging him deeper. "This, Johnny," he whispers, eyes dark with more than just lust, "Nothing else matters - just this."

"As long as we have this, we're all right, Paul, right?" John asks, hips rolling smoothly now. "No matter what else happens."

"No matter anything else," Paul agrees. Then his breath catches with the sparks that shoot off behind his eyes when John hits the angle _just_ right. "Yes, love!" he pants, hands rubbing down over John's ass and gripping tight, "Just there!"

Holding himself balanced on his elbows, John puts his head down and just _fucks_ Paul, trying to keep the angle just the way Paul likes it. The hands on his ass mean there will probably be bruises when they're done - Paul's got a death grip on him - and that's just perfect as far as he's concerned. Both of them wearing marks from the other, both of them with physical reminders of just how good it can be between them, that's the way it should be.

Grunting hoarsely with every thrust, Paul lifts into each one, his ears near ringing with the pleasure coursing through him. Making love with John isn't _similar_ to making music with John, it's _exactly like_ making music with John; it’s the physical expression. The whole of them - JohnandPaul - has always been greater than the sum of the parts.

John keeps up the pace, knowing it won't be long before it's over. He opens his eyes and looks at Paul, catching sight of the bruise where his teeth had been earlier. It feels like his entire body floods with possessive _want._ "Come, Paulie. Come and take me over with you."

Biting down hard on his lower lip, Paul watches John and concentrates on the feel of his prick moving inside him, on the way his own rubs hard against John's belly. The orgasm's so sudden it takes him by surprise and he gasps with it, hands clutching at John's ass, holding on. "Johnny!" he whines, body bowing with the force of it.

"Fuck, Paulie, that's it," John moans, lowering his head until his open mouth is resting on Paul, hot moist air ghosting over sweat-slicked skin. The way Paul's body grasps at his cock, Paul's fingers on his ass, are all that he needs and his climax follows close enough to Paul's that it might as well be simultaneous.

Paul just holds John close as their shudders gradually cease and their breathing slowly returns to normal again. Still holding him cradled within his body, Paul starts stroking his fingers up and down John's back, humming softly under his breath as they trail through cooling sweat. If there were only a way for them to stay like this all the time...

Turning his head so he's nuzzling Paul's neck, John pulls out of Paul's body, rolling slightly to the side so he doesn't crush his lover with his weight. He rests a hand on Paul's chest, feeling his heart thump. The sound of Paul humming makes him smile. "Sounds good, love. Only thing better is the way you call me name."

Feeling a little bereft when John pulls out, Paul puts his hand over John's on his chest, pressing it to his heart. Of course, he can't resist the gentle tease at John’s words, smiling back as he sings softly, " _Joooohnny!_ " and then more quiet, more solemn, " _I love you..._ "

Getting into the spirit of it, John croons back. " _My Paul... baby, baby, love you, baby._ " He grins, stretching up to kiss Paul gently. "I do, you know. Love you."

When John sings to him, Paul can't help the way his heart turns over, thudding heavily against their hands. "I know, love," he murmurs, chasing John's mouth with his own for another kiss, "One thing I'm sure of."

John nods. "Me too, Paulie."


End file.
